Panic
by Scheherazade's Daughter
Summary: "I suffer from anxiety and insomnia. I don't go out and shoot people." Oneshot. Alex has a panic attack at work. Alex/Elliot friendship.


"I suffer from anxiety and insomnia. I don't go out and shoot people."

I stood behind the one-way glass with Elliot Stabler and Captain Cragen, watching as Olivia Benson and Fin Tutuola played good-cop-bad-cop with a pedophile. All the evidence we had on him was circumstantial, and I needed him to talk if I wanted to prosecute him. So, like my good little detectives, Olivia and Fin had been interrogating the hell out of this guy for the past hour to get me my confession.

"Come on, Fin, go easy on him," Olivia was saying. "We're not the Gestapo."

"Shut up, Liv," Fin said dismissively, getting right in the man's face. "Listen, scumbag. You're going to tell us everything we want to know, or else I'm going to have my partner here leave the room for five minutes, and at the end of those five minutes, you'll be singing like a canary. Do we have an understanding?"

"Look, man, I told you, I didn't molest no kids! I'm innocent," he protested, but his voice was shaking. The guy was about to break; I could feel it. I couldn't wait to take this bastard to court.

As Olivia began her counterpoint to Fin's intimidation tactics, I started feeling fidgety. The perp was saying something, but it didn't register. My breath was quick and shallow in my chest, and I could feel my heart racing. I rocked back and forth on my feet and pulled at my shirt, which all of a sudden seemed to be suffocating me. _Oh, God, please, not here_.

"You all right, Alex?" Elliot whispered.

"Excuse me," I said, moving to the door as quickly as I could without running. I stepped out into the hallway, searching frantically for somewhere to go. Bathrooms were usually my best bet, but to reach them I'd have to cross the squad room, and the thought of being around so many people made me sick to my stomach.

I almost sighed with relief when I spotted an old janitor's closet. The door was slightly ajar, but the light was off. I ducked in and barely missed tripping over a dirty old mop bucket. Stifling a sob, I slumped against the wall and let myself slide down into a sitting position, hugging my knees tight and burying my face in my arms. I felt sick and my shoulders wouldn't stop shaking. There was a belt around my lungs and no matter how deeply I breathed it was never deep enough. I kept gasping until I felt lightheaded and tingly from too much oxygen.

"I hate this," I muttered, as tears pricked the corners of my eyes. The belt around my lungs was growing tighter, and I felt like passing out.

I saw the door to the closet move and heard Elliot Stabler's voice whisper, "Alex? You all right?"

Still hugging my knees, I managed a small nod. Quietly, he stepped over the old mop bucket and sat down next to me, legs bent in front of him, a more relaxed version of my knee-hugging. "Shh," he whispered. "Shh-shh, it's okay." He reached out a tentative hand and, getting no negative reaction from me, began to rub my back, and I let him. We sat in silence as he watched the Ice Queen shatter into a million tiny shards.

After a while, the shaking subsided and I began to feel slightly embarrassed that someone I worked with on a regular basis had seen me in such a vulnerable position. God, I must look ridiculous.

"I-I'm sorry," I said to Elliot.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," he replied. "It's okay. Sometimes you just have to let it all out. You know, Dickie, my son, he gets anxiety attacks sometimes. His first year of middle school, he really put himself through the ringer. It took my wife Kathy and me a while to convince him he didn't have to take every honors course and extracurricular the school had to offer. We got him into counseling, and he's doing a lot better."

"I'm glad," I told him sincerely.

"Have you been under a lot of stress lately?" he asked. I looked up at him. This was a side of Elliot Stabler I didn't normally see, a concerned, gentle man a far cry from the hardened, quick-tempered cop I knew.

"I've been working pretty hard," I admitted. "High stress job, plus I have a genetic predisposition and I can't for the life of me get a good night's sleep."

He gave a slight nod. "That'll do it. You gotta take better care of yourself, Alex. Maybe pass along a few cases to some of the other ADA's."

"I think I will," I said. "But that bastard in interrogation is mine."

A small smile played across Elliot's face. "I thought as much. You feeling any better?"

"Yeah." It was true; I still felt light-headed and a little shaky, but the worst of the anxiety had passed.

"Let's stay here a few more minutes; make sure you're all right."

"Okay."

He continued to rub my back in slow circles, as a father might do to comfort a child who'd had a bad dream. After a few minutes, I turned to him and gave a small nod.

"You good to go?" he asked.

"Yeah." He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze and helped me to my feet. Sidestepping the mop bucket, we headed back to watch the interrogation.


End file.
